Moonlight on Water (42 page)

“If you'll call Abban instead, he can tell you that I'm being honest.”

“No. Leave, or I shall have the police arrest you.”

Shocked, Cailin had set Lottie on the closest sofa. She heard a sharp intake of breath but ignored Mrs. Rafferty as she dug into her bag for the papers that confirmed that she and Abban were married. The priest had read everything aloud before the wedding, so both she and Abban had a chance to be certain this was the step they wanted to take.

Holding out the crumpled pages, she said, “This proves that I'm being honest.”

Mrs. Rafferty had taken the papers, scanned them, and then reached for the bellpull. Before Cailin could speak, she said, “Be silent, you silly girl. I'm not ringing for anyone but a maid to take these children to rest while we talk.”

Bidding her older children to follow the maid who answered the bell, Cailin had reluctantly placed Lottie in the servant's arms. She turned back to speak with her mother-in-law, but not before she saw the maid's nose wrinkle in disgust as she fingered the thin blanket around the little girl.

That had been the last time she had seen all three children together.

And the last time she had believed happiness awaited her in America, for Mrs. Rafferty's next words were, “Before you say anything else, I have something to say to you. My son is dead.”

Three

“Good morning!”

“Good morning!”

“Good morning, Mama!”

Cailin woke as the bed bounced along with the happy voices. With a cry, she held out her arms. Her three children tumbled into them like a litter of puppies. She hugged one, then the next, pressing her face close to theirs, drinking in their luscious scents, remembering every moment she had held them close. She had treasured those memories, when she had feared she would never see them again, and she treasured them even more now when her children were in her arms again.

She stared at each of them as they sat in front of her. She would never take the sight of their charming faces for granted. Not ever again. Her memories of them faded to tepid copies of these vibrant children. Brendan, who looked even more like her father than before, and whose dark eyes could go from one emotion to another in the midst of a single word. Megan, who—as always—watched over her younger sister, making sure nothing happened to her. Lottie, who had grown from a baby to a little girl since Cailin had seen her last.

All those months had been lost and would never be regained. Megan had two more missing teeth on top, and her second teeth on the bottom were growing in to tower over the others. Brendan had a scar on his elbow that might have been a recent scrape or the remnants of a deeper wound. And her dear, dear Lottie had not grown too big to fit into her arms … if Lottie still liked to cuddle.

With a start, Cailin wondered if the differences were only physical. The children had suffered the greatest blow any child could—believing they had lost both father and mother within weeks of each other after their arrival in America. She had been not much older than Brendan when she had lost her own mother, and the pain still lingered. She had been among friends while she grieved. Her children had had only each other.

“Look, Mama!” cried Brendan, jumping down off the bed and tugging up the sleeve of his clean, well-pressed shirt. “See how big my muscle is now.”

“It is
mór
.” When he gave her a quizzical glance, she said, “It is truly big.” She had become accustomed to using English after she married Abban, and the children understood very little Gaelic. In New York, with the other maids, she had spoken Gaelic, a comforting link to home. “You've grown a foot since I last saw you.”

Lottie looked over the side of the bed. “He's got only two feet, Mama.”

With a laugh, Cailin drew her youngest closer. “I mean he has grown so tall. And look at you!” She had hidden her shock at seeing spectacles on Lottie's nose, but she would ask Mr. Jennings about them as soon as the child was out of earshot. “You're a big girl now.”

“Almost as big as Megan!”

Cailin held out her hand to her older daughter. With a heart-wrenching sob, Megan threw herself into Cailin's arms and wept. Stroking Megan's hair, which was curly just like Cailin's, instead of straight like her brother's and sister's … and their father's, which had been a brown so light it was almost blond, she said nothing. Megan had never been able to hide anything she was feeling, and that had not changed.

Cailin knew she should say something to the children. She had been awake half the night trying to decide how she would explain what had happened. If she had devised some wise words, they had fled from her head the moment she opened her eyes to see her dear children.

“I have missed all of you so much,” she whispered. “I've missed seeing your smiles and listening to your laughs while I told you stories before bed.”

“Mama,” said Megan as softly, “Mrs. Rafferty told us you were dead.”

“She was mistaken,
a stór
.” How she wished she could spill all the anger in her heart, but she must not. There had been enough sorrow already. She would not create more for the children by telling them of their grandmother's treachery.

“Her name is Megan,” Lottie announced, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Samuel says we all should speak directly.”

“Correctly,” Brendan said with a roll of his eyes. “Mama, Lottie always talks like this when she's excited.”

“A stór
means darling, and Lottie is just learning more new words, right?” Cailin tapped Lottie on the cheek, the motion almost sapping her strength.

“Oh.” The little girl considered it for a moment, then said, “Dahi and I like that word.”

“Dahi? Who is Dahi?”

Before Lottie could answer, Brendan said, “Mama, we've got a rabbit! We caught it yesterday, and Samuel let us keep it. We built a house for it. As soon as you're better, I'll take you to see it.”

“And I'm going to take it to the fair.” Megan grinned through her tears.

“Who told you that you could take
my
rabbit to the fair?”

“You've got your silly old cow to take. Samuel said I could take the rabbit if I wanted.”

“I didn't say you could!”

Although even their spat was a wondrous sound to ears that had missed every aspect of their voices, Cailin said quietly, “Arguing will gain you nothing. Can we talk about this when I'm up and about?”

“Are you still sick, Mama?” asked Megan, as always the one most concerned with someone else's welfare.

“I'm getting better every day.” She smiled as she had not since she had reached Mrs. Rafferty's house in New York and thought her journey was over. “Just seeing the three of you is the very best medicine I could imagine.”

“I wanna show you the rabbit,” Lottie said with a superior smile at her sister and brother.

“I want to see your rabbit. We'll all go and see it together.”

Cailin took Megan's hand as Lottie cuddled next to her. Holding out her other hand to Brendan, she blinked back tears when he grasped it. She had been afraid he would think he was now too old for such a show of affection. Closing her eyes, she said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Mr. Jennings's voice intruded on the perfect moment.

Straightening her borrowed shirt, which was now buttoned properly from top to bottom, Cailin said,
“Dia duit
.”

“That means good morning, Samuel,” Brendan added, grinning. “See, Mama, I remembered it!
Deartháir
. Brother.” He pointed to himself, then to his sisters.
“Deirfiúracha
. Sisters. And mama is
máthair
.” He pointed to her. “And papa is
athair
.”

“Yes, your father is
do athair
.” She put out her hand to calm Lottie, who was bouncing about again and babbling. “Hush, Lottie,” she added. “Let your brother finish.”

“My father is
mo athair
. Right?”

“Yes.”

Brendan glanced at the man in the door, and she flinched before he added,
“Mo athair
. Samuel, did you know I could speak Irish? See how much I remember, Mama?”

She did not answer, other than giving him a tremulous smile, for her gaze could not escape Mr. Jennings's cool one. Brendan had called him Samuel but had looked toward this stranger when he said the words
mo athair
. Only when Lottie jumped off the bed and ran to him did his eyes warm. If his questions had not shown her how much he cared about her children, the grin he offered Lottie would have.

Again her opinion of him had to be adjusted. He might treat her with a polite chill—and why not? She had arrived at his house so ill he had had to send for a doctor. But he had a warm heart that he had opened along with his house to her children. She owed him more than she doubted she could ever repay. If he had not been willing to take all three children, they would have been separated, and she might have taken far longer to find them.

Everyone was astonished when Samuel offered to have the three children placed out with him. Three children for a bachelor
!

The strange voice within her head startled her. She had forgotten those words until now. Why hadn't she remembered them last night before she asked Mr. Jennings about his wife? Her head had throbbed then. It was better now, so why couldn't she recall the woman who had said those words? She searched her memory, but she could not put a face with the voice. In astonishment, she realized she could remember nothing but desperation from the time the train stopped at the station in Haven. There had been a small town and people, but they were all faceless, and the buildings might have been any color. She did remember the sound of thunder spurring her feet to reach her children before the storm broke around her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Rafferty.” Mr. Jennings set the tray where he had put the other one yesterday. When had he come to retrieve that one? “I trust you'd like some breakfast, for you haven't eaten since you got here.”

Lottie clambered across the bed and picked up a piece of toast off the tall stack. Sitting back on her heels, she started to take a bite. She paused, and with a glance at Mr. Jennings, she held it out to Cailin.

“Thank you, Lottie,” she said, trying not to pay attention to the luscious aroma of the toast. “Will you eat breakfast with me?”

With a giggle, the little girl plucked another piece of toast off the pile and handed it to her sister. She offered the next to her brother. When she held out a slice to Mr. Jennings, he took it with a smile and a quiet “Thank you.”

Again he sat on the foot of the bed, as if it were the most natural thing for him to do. Again Cailin said nothing as the children pelted him with questions between bites of toast and the jam he helped them serve themselves. The questions were about the upcoming fair, and he answered them with a patience she admired.

She did not eat, even though her stomach was painfully empty and she could not recollect when she had last had any food. She sat in silence, the toast quivering in her hand, and watched how her children treated Mr. Jennings with respect and good humor … and love. They clearly were at home here, and she wondered how they would feel about leaving this house and him.

When he looked over their heads, she met his gaze evenly. He turned back to the children. Not hastily, as if he were embarrassed to have her see him glancing toward her. Rather as if he had dismissed her as a problem he did not want to deal with when he preferred to chat with the children. His smile was warm as he spoke with them, keeping them from arguing about one matter or another with a skill Cailin had to admire.

“Do you have children of your own, sir?” she asked at a pause in the rapid conversation.

Mr. Jennings was clearly reluctant to look at her, and she wanted to tell him that he could not continue to hide behind the children and act as if nothing were out of the ordinary. When his gaze swept over her again, she knew she had misjudged him. He was not chatting with the children because he wished to pretend she was not here. He was doing so because he was trying to govern the powerful emotions visible in his eyes.

She clutched the covers and the long hem of the shirt beneath them. She hoped he could not hear the frantic thud of her heart.

“No children but these,” he replied. “In the past six months, they've come to consider this house their home.”

“You have a way with children.”

“I've learned.” His smile grew warm again as he clapped Brendan on the shoulder. “I've had good teachers.”

“It's good to see that they've been happy, Mr. Jennings.”

Lottie dropped onto her stomach. She leaned both elbows on the bed and swung her feet behind her. With a grin, she said, “You should call him Samuel, Mama. All-body does.”

“Everybody,” Samuel corrected quietly.

When she did not answer, unsure what to say, for it was almost as if two men sat on the bed—the one who was so chilly to her and the one who had clearly won her children's love—Samuel laughed. He ruffled the little girl's hair and teased, “Quarter-pint, you know that's what I usually say when I meet folks.”

She giggled. “I was faster than you.”

“You were.” Looking over Lottie's head, he flashed another of those warm smiles, but this time at Cailin. “I guess I've said that too many times in her hearing, but she's right. Samuel is more comfortable.”

For whom
? She did not ask. The question sounded spiteful, even in her head. Samuel Jennings could not help the fact that his smile could have lit up a ship's deck on a moonless night.

“And her name is Cailin,” announced Megan, reaching for another slice of toast.

“Whoa there.” He put up his arm between her eager fingers and the plate. “No one has another piece until your mother finishes her first slice. Then you can have another when she does.”